


The Art of Stalling

by ehmazing



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mid-Canon, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 10:39:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14953095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/pseuds/ehmazing
Summary: After twelve hours of waiting for either bad news or a parking citation, Lieutenant Hawkeye is glad to see a familiar face.





	The Art of Stalling

**Author's Note:**

> Remember in Chapter 56 when Roy sprints back to his car after being held hostage all night, sees Armstrong waiting there instead of his Lieutenant who would not let him go inside Command in the first place until he finally said "I'll be back" instead of "if I die-", has a small panic attack thinking she has finally left him, and then finds out Armstrong's only there bc Riza needed five minutes to use the restroom? 
> 
> Cause I do, and all these years of rereading and rewatching, whenever I got to that scene I thought "how the hell did that off-screen convo between Riza and Armstrong go…"
> 
> (Maybe one day I'll write an FMA fic that isn't based off like, 2 pages, but it's not this day)

Around oh-seven-hundred, after she’d watched dawn creep over the white stone walls of Central Command, Riza began to wonder if he had died after all. She didn’t want to, but the thought was as inescapable as the morning sun that rose to meet her eyes and burn there. The guard had changed three times since he’d gone. Twice she’d been ordered to move her vehicle.

She refused: “I am under orders to wait here for Colonel Mustang.”

The first time they looked at her with pity. The second like she was crazy.

Now the sergeant at the left door was whispering something to his replacement and glancing her way with suspicion. The squads on security duty were under the authority of a captain, but it would only be a matter of time before they found someone high enough to overthrow her orders. Fine. She’d surrender the car if she had to. But they’d have to bulldoze her down if they wanted her to leave the gate. She even ran a defensive maneuver through her head, dodging imaginary guards with miniscule twists of her shoulders and knees. Though it wasn’t much, it helped to move. If she stayed too still, Riza knew she would fall asleep, and she couldn’t fall asleep here, now, while she was still waiting.

Still waiting. She kept falling back ten years and a lifetime ago to another cold fall morning. She could still see her best black shoes sinking in the mud. _I can’t promise you that,_ he’d said with a shrug. But this time he really had promised. So he wasn’t dead. Couldn’t be.

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder. A shadow eclipsed the sun.

“This isn’t an unloading zone, Lieutenant Hawkeye.”

Her eyes snapped open and found the wide expanse of Major Armstrong’s lapels. She was leaning against the passenger door; just slumping back had apparently been enough for her to doze off.

“You have to pull your car around to the dock on the west side,” he continued, cocking his head to where the drive wound around the corner to the next wing.

“Sir—” Riza saw spots as she saluted. Her head felt like it was stuffed with pins. “I’m not unloading anything, sir. I’m under orders to wait here.”

“Ah, I see. At ease,” he dismissed gently. She dropped her salute and resumed an upright stance, pushing away from the car. Her feet ached from the sudden change in position. _Too used to sitting on the job,_ she thought ruefully.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you, Major,” she said, flexing her toes in her boots. “I was trying stay awake, but it seems I’ve failed.” The sun was alarmingly higher in the sky than she remembered. “Do you have the time?”

Armstrong dug out his pocket watch and flicked open the lid. It looked like a child’s toy in his massive hand.

“Nearly oh-eight-hundred.” His heavy brow furrowed. “How long have you been waiting here, Lieutenant?” He didn’t ask for whom.

“Since about eighteen-thirty, sir. I’ve been keeping track of time by the changing of the guard.”

Armstrong closed his watch with a startled snap. “Since last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve been standing here for over twelve hours?”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t say anything else, but Riza began to wish he would. The silence left her to think it all over, churning through most-likely's and what-if's at rapid speed. She became too aware of her own discomfort. Her jacket was damp with morning dew and her undershirt was sticky with cold sweat. Her hair was slipping slowly free of her clip, oily and clumped at the back of her neck. Aside from an apple Fuery had found in his satchel and foisted upon her, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She ached all over, most of all at her temples, where a headache had grown shortly after midnight and camped there ever since. Armstrong studied her face with a scientist’s questioning stare while she argued in her head over whether she should storm up those stairs or not, whether she should hunch over and retch or not.

“It’s not the start of my shift yet, Lieutenant.” It was always strange when a man as large as the Major spoke so softly. Shielding them both with his broad shoulders from the guards, he gave a minute nod to the stairs. “I could go inside and find him, if you’d like.”

“No, sir,” she said quickly. “I mean thank you, sir, it’s a kind offer, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” She couldn’t help but glance around his shoulder at the stairs again, still empty. “Besides, Command is so large that you might pass the Colonel by and never know. I wouldn’t want you to put in the effort just for him to stroll out right after you went in.”

Armstrong’s mustache twitched as he chuckled. “You’re right, Lieutenant. That would be very much like him, too.”

Riza managed to smile at that, despite all odds. She turned her heels together, preparing to salute the Major again as he wished her luck and then continued on his way. But instead of turning to leave, Armstrong moved to her side. He folded his arms behind his back and looked ahead proudly as if they were on the deck of a ship beholding the sea, not watching the east entrance gate of Central Command beside an improperly-parked car.

“As I said, I have some time to spare,” he said, “so I’ll keep you company while you wait.”

Riza swallowed. Her mouth tasted salty and sour.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and meant it.

They waited. The sun inched overhead. If Riza concentrated hard enough, she could just barely hear the ticking of Armstrong’s pocket watch, tucked into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket. The state-issued watches were notoriously noisy; when the Colonel left it on top of his desk sometimes, it took only minutes to annoy Breda into pulling at his hair. She had never minded it much, but for Breda’s sake she had always been the one who dared to either ask the Colonel to put it away or shut it up in a drawer when his back was turned. Now she supposed Breda wouldn’t be driven mad by that watch anymore, as he wouldn’t be in the office to hear it.

Neither would she. She would never again sit at the first desk on the right, six steps—five if she walked faster—from the Colonel’s desk, where the ticking could be heard clearly as the watch sat a few inches from his right hand. Would he still put it back in his pocket if no one asked him to? Would he leave it at the office by accident when he packed up and headed home? No, probably not. He would remember at the end of the day, surely, to tuck it back into the inner jacket pocket, and it would stay there until he took it out again. It had his State Treasury serial number, after all, so he could identify himself, or someone would know who he was if they found it on a body like they found the wallet on Maes Hughes—

“Major Armstrong,” she forced herself to say, before she started pulling at her hair like Breda, “tell me: how is your family?”

“All very well, thank you!” The Major practically glowed. “Mother and Father have just returned from the summer house in Lindhurst, where they found a beautiful dining set during their annual antique hunt. Olivier has lapsed in her letter-writing, as usual, so I don’t have much idea of what she's up to aside from running her poor men ragged. Amue has started a new charity—have you heard of the Havenward Home? No?—and is hosting fundraisers left and right for it. Strongine was her head planner, but lately she's been spending more and more time with a promising new beau.” He winked. “And dear Catherine Elle is glued to her pianoforte. She’s hoping to be admitted to the conservatory in Kraalfield next year. If you’re free next Tuesday, in fact, she’s giving a concert!”

“Thank you, sir,” Riza demurred, “but I have no idea if I’m available. I expect they’ll give me a new schedule and I doubt it will be flexible.”

“A new schedule? Is the Colonel changing shifts?”

“Oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you.” She felt embarrassed; she’d sat with the news churning so long in her head that she assumed everyone in Central must have known by now. “I’ve been reassigned.” She swallowed back the unpleasant taste rising again in her throat. “Effective tomorrow, I will no longer be on Colonel Mustang’s staff. Neither will the other men from East City.”

“That’s—very sudden, Lieutenant.” The alert look in Armstrong’s eye told her she didn’t need to make up an explanation. “You’re not going too far, I hope?”

“The others aren’t so lucky. But I’ll still be in Central.” She took the transfer notice from her pocket and gave it to him with a rueful smile. “Just down a different hallway.”

Armstrong’s eyes grew wider and wider as he read it through. “A most impressive promotion, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” he said slowly, handing the paper back. “Congratulations.”

Anyone else might have thought he sounded honest. She couldn’t help but look at the guards again as she refolded the notice back into quarters. Were they squinting this way to try and see what she was doing from a distance? Or were they only glaring, still annoyed, at the out-of-place car?

“I’m sure you will settle in without much trouble,” Armstrong continued with more believable cheer, though a worried undercurrent still colored his tone. “As the saying goes, your old commander is a devil when you serve him and a saint when you meet your new one.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ve never been reassigned before.”  
  
He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve been in the service for…?”

“Seven years.”

“But you haven’t been the Colonel’s adjutant for—”

“Yes. Seven years.”

Armstrong‘s other eyebrow joined the first. “That’s a long time, Lieutenant.”

“It is, sir.”

She waited for the comment. The remark, the joke, the little pitying noise everyone would make when they heard. How difficult it must be—how insane she must be—to be worked to death by Colonel Mustang. 

But Armstrong only said, “Olivier’s had her adjutant for eight years now, I think. Before him she went through three or four a month. Said all of them had handwriting like blind moles and no grasp of how to properly alphabetize a filing cabinet.” He shook his head, sighing. “I think this current fellow should stick, provided he doesn’t tire of her first. You’re very lucky, Lieutenant; it seems you found a good, steady job with a good, steady commander.”

Riza blinked. For a moment she thought she might burst into tears, which was ridiculous, because the Colonel had received commendations for years, of course, or he wouldn’t be a colonel otherwise. She wanted to say something. _Yes, sir, he is._ Or _Yes, sir, it’s been a good run._ Or _Yes, sir, and now that it’s over I don’t know what I’m going to do. This is all I have ever done._

Or _Sir, I know I should, but I can’t leave. Not because I’m hopeful; I’m desperate. He promised he’d come back. He’s never promised that before. But he’s probably dead. He’s probably been dead since eighteen-thirty last night. I don’t know. The Fuhrer probably transferred me just so they could kill me quietly but he’ll have to come out here and do it himself, because until the Colonel walks down those stairs, I’m not dying anywhere but in this spot. I don’t know. I’m so tired. I don’t know._

She said, “Permission to ask a personal question, Major?”

“Permission granted.”

“Have you ever been reassigned, sir?”

“Three times,” he answered. “I was posted in Western Command after I graduated from the Academy, which is uncommon in my family. Armstrongs have been Central soldiers, historically, but I wanted a bit of adventure in my youth," he chuckled. “After I took the State Alchemist exam, I was reassigned down south. I moved here and there between forts during the railroad expansion project. It wasn’t too bad, all told, though the summers were scorching. Then I was sent to the Eastern front in ‘08.” He didn’t elaborate from there. “When the war ended, my father hadn’t retired yet. He pulled some strings to get me back in Central, close to home, out of concern for my health. I’ve been at Central Command ever since.”

“Do you have any advice, then?” She licked her dry lips. “About getting used to it?”

Armstrong hummed as he thought. “Well,” he said, “you’re not moving cities, so you won’t have to worry about packing and the like. Aside from that, I only have some general tips. Treat your commanders well and your subordinates better. Bringing pastries solves most office problems. Make an effort to be on time and they’ll be more forgiving when you aren’t. And if you’re ever lonely," his eyes darted to the stairs and back, "remember that the friends you left haven’t ceased to exist just because you can’t see them.”

It almost hurt to smile. “I’ll try to keep that in mind, sir.”

“You’re a very capable soldier, Lieutenant Hawkeye." Armstrong put a hand on her shoulder again, just for a moment. “You’ll be fine. And as my Great-Aunt Calpurnia Aimee Armstrong used to say, you can get a fine chain out of any knot so long as you commit to untangling it, or by transmuting it into a bangle instead.”

“Thank you, sir." Riza surprised herself when she laughed. "That’s…very wise of her.”

“Indeed. Though she was arrested in 1883 for transmuting diamonds out of coal bricks she bought in bulk, so please don’t take it literally. It’s a rather good story, though, and I’d love to tell you more about how she escaped the brig in the basement of the State Treasury…”

Calpurnia Aimee Armstrong ended up occupying Riza’s mind for the better part of half an hour, but finally she could no longer ignore the painful clench of her lower belly. Fuery’s apple had done more harm than good. She scanned every face she could see on the stairs thrice more before she had no choice but to interrupt.

“Major, I know your shift must start soon, but if you could spare even a few more minutes, I would be grateful.” She wiped a bead of sweat from the back of her neck and grimaced. “I haven’t, ah, relieved myself since last night, and I’m afraid if I walk away the guards will move the car. Would it be too much trouble if you waited in my place to watch it?”

Armstrong straightened with pride. “Of course, I’d be happy to take watch! Take as much time as you need.”

“Thank you so much, sir, I’ll be back in five minutes at most, there’s a ladies’ lavatory near this wing and if I run I can get back—”

“Lieutenant.” Armstrong put up a hand. “Go.”

“Yes, sir,” Riza stuttered, her legs aching as she started for the stairs, “yes, thank you, yes.”

She took the stairs two at a time. Central had triple the number of lavatories that Eastern Command did, but the ladies’ were still few and far between. She caught a couple faces turning to watch her as she sped through the halls, but none of them were the right face, so what did she care? When she sat down in the stall her vision swam for a second. She thought if she were to be sick now, at least it’d be easier to clean up on tile than the middle of the street. Her legs were practically shaking.

When finished, she went to the sinks and ducked her head beneath a faucet. It was easier to twist her hair tightly when wet, the stray pieces now slicked down. Nothing could be done about her bloodshot eyes, but a towel got the sweat off her neck and soap got the foreign girl’s flaking blood off her palms. When Riza rebuttoned her jacket, she looked in the mirror and saw a woman who’d been up all night. Better than a woman close to a breakdown.

And for a moment, just a moment, she closed her eyes and willed her desperation into hope and hope into truth. He'd made a promise, so he would keep it. He had taken another route and passed her just as she warned the Major that he might. He was walking down the stairs now, two at a time, looking just as god-awful as she did, ready to fight anyone who’d dared move the car. He would search every face for hers. And when he got to the bottom, where Major Armstrong stood at ease, he would panic until he turned around and realized she’d been behind him all along.

He was alive. Riza beat it into her sore legs with every step she took, hurrying back. He was alive, and she’d gladly owe Major Armstrong a favor for giving so much of his time.


End file.
